


Bite Size

by galwednesday



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anthology, Creature Fic, Drabbles, Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff and Humor, Mild Horror, Multi, Mythology References, Witches, and also for some reason marine biologists, but nothing gory or violent, each drabble is different but recurring themes include
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: THROWConnor knows he’s fucked as soon as he picks up the bone. Curses taste like licking a battery, copper and heat spilling over his tongue. He blows his whistle and the dig site clears in record time, just like the drills but with more swearing. Connor stands in the center of an expanding circle of silence until the dog arrives.Massive paws, shaggy black fur, slobbering jaws. An expectant expression. Connor blinks. Throws. The dog booms a joyful bark and chases, plowing heedlessly through the grid markers, returning with all three tails wagging to drop the bone at Connor’s feet.(2020 Inktober drabble anthology)
Comments: 56
Kudos: 188





	Bite Size

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween, if you’re into that sort of thing! This is a collection of 100-word drabbles that I wrote daily based on 2020’s list of Inktober prompts, vaguely attempting to follow a creature feature theme. Turns out I love writing drabbles?? Turns out I can squeeze writing out of 2020 if I’m doing it in small chunks for a limited time period??? Big If True.
> 
> These range in tone from fluffy comedy to light horror, but with no violence (the Teen rating is just for swearing). All of the drabbles are unconnected except for the three that somehow became part of a Marine Biologist Cinematic Universe.

FISH

The thick ice is cloudy, but she can still see shapes moving underneath when she crouches, small fingers pink with cold wiping snow aside. Flashes of dark and light between her bright yellow boots. She’s not allowed to play in this pond; nobody is, not when men who stray too close to its shore go missing. But she’s a girl, and they don’t hurt girls, so once the surface freezes over she comes to watch the witches swimming, gliding beneath the ice as silently as any fish, sweeps of dark hair stark against the white dresses they’d been drowned in.

WISP

He’d only been able to afford the house after one hurricane too many had tipped the balance of the marsh abutting the street, fresh water turned brackish carving space for new inhabitants. He’d signed the waivers at closing, seen the local news PSAs, heard the neighbors who resented his presence remind each other how stupid the previous owner had been to go outside after dark. It didn’t stop him from sitting on his porch at dusk, a sweet ache settling deep in his chest as he watched honey warm lights move lazily between the trees; one invasive species watching another.

BULKY

Her new shoulders are too broad to pass through her bedroom doorway. She breaks the wall apart, carefully, the chisel taken from the castle smithy where dust is just beginning to settle, until she can squeeze through, ducking low to accommodate her horns. She drags her mattress to the floor and sprawls, satisfied despite her heels hanging over the edge onto cold stone; she’ll bring in a second mattress tomorrow. It had taken years to find the right witch to offend, but the silence is worth it: the castle is hers alone, her skin finally big enough to hold her.

RADIO

Medusa’s voice is low and scratchy, throbbing through her headphones. It’s not weighted like a siren's song, but it hooks her heart all the same, the lyrical loneliness a baited lure. She's the only technician in the recording booth; a safety precaution, union rules. A privilege no one fights her for, her manager giving her worried looks when she volunteers before anyone else can. 

If the blackout paint were on her side of the booth's window she might take her pocket knife to it, scratch away an eye's width, and look: become a statue of devotion, a congregation of one. 

BLADE

"They were out of peanut butter pretzels." Craig ignores the immediate mournful _awooo_ from what he's carefully thinking of as a dog. "So I got regular."

"We appreciate it,” the woman in charge says. The others are ferrying grocery bags inside. It was their usual order: enough food for a block party, bulk packs of shaving blades, and unscented dog shampoo. A rangy teen growls at the kid climbing his leg to steal the potato chips out of his bag. The kid snarls back, baring fanged canines.

The woman sees Craig's pained expression and adds another $20 to his tip.

RODENT

Scritch rides on Maggie’s shoulder as she scrabbles up the trellis, a bag of stolen bread rolls tied around her waist. The rest swarm over the roof’s edge, Twitch’s tail lashing proudly as he drags a silver teaspoon half his body length. She slips the spoon into her pocket and crumbles one roll for the rats to eat before they hit the next house; she’ll pool the rest with whatever the others have found when they tally up the day’s take. Maggie hasn’t gone hungry once this winter. It's the most important rule they have: the Piper's children always share.

FANCY

"Have you had a chance to read my stud contract offer?" 

"No," Sayyid lies, teeth gritted. Ethan smiles at him, the smug, condescending bastard, with Princess Francesca, now wearing her _fourth_ consecutive miniature breed blue ribbon, tucked under his arm. Sayyid wants to pet her, but he'll burn down the Manticore Show exhibition hall before he admits it.

"Perhaps we could discuss it tonight? Over drinks?"

Sir Snapdragon chooses that moment to give Princess Francesca an ostentatious courting bow, wings flaring wide, so Sayyid is too busy choking down second-hand embarrassment to refuse. He'll decline the contract tonight. Over drinks.

TEETH

“What up, bite club!” The youtuber throws a peace sign at the camera behind a SPONSORED BY CREST overlay. “Today we’re learning how to keep our fangs looking sharp.”

“Unless you’re brushing your teeth every time you take a fuckin’ sip, babes, you’re going to get this gross rusty bloodstain build-up over time. But bleaching it out is super simple! Just block your fangs’ tips with a little sticky tack so you don’t taste the chemicals, rinse the bleaching paste off after twenty minutes, and voila!” The youtuber grins widely, showing off gleaming incisors. “Pearly whites once more. Happy hunting!”

THROW

Connor knows he’s fucked as soon as he picks up the bone. Curses taste like licking a battery, copper and heat spilling over his tongue. He blows his whistle and the dig site clears in record time, just like the drills but with more swearing. Connor stands in the center of an expanding circle of silence until the dog arrives. 

Massive paws, shaggy black fur, slobbering jaws. An expectant expression. Connor blinks. Throws. The dog booms a joyful bark and chases, plowing heedlessly through the grid markers, returning with all three tails wagging to drop the bone at Connor’s feet.

HOPE

“It’s just a diamond.”

“It’s _my_ diamond.” 

“Once you fake your death--”

“ _Legally_ , no, but morally, ethically, spiritually,” she says, tightening her climbing harness, “that’s _my_ diamond. It was a gift--”

“From the sun king,” her brother choruses, long-suffering, as though he doesn’t have the easy job, sitting on the roof with a laptop blocking security. She’s the one who has to actually go get it. “And now, after three centuries, you simply must have it back. Sure. If you’re bored you can just say so, you know.”

“I’m not bored,” she lies, and dives backwards off the museum roof.

DISGUSTING

His shadow lies thick and curdled across her workshop floor, a dense queasy smear on pale wood. She uses candlelight and a mirror's edge to split it into three crisp outlines, each different: silhouettes of a mustache, the points of a high collar, a woman's wide-brimmed hat. 

He storms out in a cloud of fear and self-important fury when she says there's nothing she can do. It’s not quite true. There's nothing she _wants_ to do, not against a well-earned vengeance curse, except wait for the shades to drag him down. A man carrying stolen shadows deserves everything he gets.

SLIPPERY

The fish hits the water as a dismayed cry sounds from above. Tllsk usually finds escort duty boring, but today she and Ysss are babysitting a scientific expedition, and watching the humans try and fail to catch specimens is _much_ more entertaining than shadowing cargo ships through mer waters.

Ysss darts forward, snatches the fish, and hoists it above water at the boat’s side, his tail curling eagerly. The human he’s been mooning over collects it, smiling their thanks.

Tllsk flares her fins suggestively, then hisses with laughter when Ysss scowls back and the blushing human fumbles the fish again.

DUNE

“Ten _thousand_ dollars?” The larger warlock clutches his shock blanket more tightly. “It was one ram!”

“The fines are clearly posted,” Yolanski says with deliberate patience.

“It’s hungry,” the smaller warlock says, dreamily enough that she’s a clear return risk. Most survivors are smart enough to stay away after nearly being eaten alive, but not the ones who come to leave _sacrifices_. “We need to feed it.”

“Ma’am, Mount Baldy could eat the whole state and still be hungry.”

“We need to feed it,” she repeats, and Yolanski makes a note to add her to the National Park Service watchlist.

ARMOR

“You’re overreacting.”

“We all agreed,” Stephanie shouts through the second-floor bathroom window. Milo and Falah wait behind the front door, baseball bats at the ready. “Z-suits are mandatory for all excursions.”

“I didn’t get bit!”

“We can’t know that!”

“If you’re not feverish or shambling after twenty-four hours,” Milo cuts in, “you can come inside.”

“You’re leaving me out here overnight?”

“You’ll be fine if you _wear the fucking Z-suit_ , _Brad._ ” 

They hear an aggrieved sigh, then the clanking of buckles as Brad climbs into the heavy canvas bite-proof suit.

Milo can’t _wait_ until he can afford a studio apartment.

OUTPOST

Melanie listens to a hours of podcasts, audiobooks, anything to fill the silence. Fire watching doesn’t take much focus; she’s only had to radio in two plumes of smoke that both fizzled out. The firebirds’ nest is nestled deep within the cliffs, so she just has to worry about stray feathers falling into the surrounding forest when the male goes hunting, swooping below the canopy and emerging with dead rabbits to share.

She doesn’t text her ex. Bridget wouldn’t even pick up Melanie’s favorite candy from the gas station, and she refuses to have lower standards than a fucking bird.

ROCKET

The witch plants dandelions, rocket, rampion; bitter greens craved by mothers-to-be. It’s been a too-wet summer, fields flooding even as they sprouted, and that means babes born in the spring to mothers without milk. She doesn’t patch the fence, leaving an easy path to her garden for anyone desperate enough to take the risk.

Witches don’t seek out apprentices, but there are other ways, old ways, bargains to be struck when the winter is so lean that trading away a firstborn daughter brings more relief than regret. And what is a witch but an unwanted daughter, nourished instead of starved?

STORM

He grips the bottle tightly, the model ship inside heaving against the glass, as they sail between mountainous waves in a pool of flat calm. The bottle holds only splinters by the time urgent hands pull him forward. He maintains focus even as the deck under his feet changes to gravel, until the captain snaps her fingers in his face. “We’re clear. Debt’s due.”

It’s pure relief to open his hands, the bottle’s crash drowned out by the cacophony of the abandoned ship shattering. Waves rise to lap up the pieces, glass and wood alike swallowed by the uncanny tide.

TRAP

“So, uh. You, well, you’re--”

“Yes,” his rescuer interrupts, mercifully, and gestures to his wings. “I’m the mothman. As you can see.”

“Right. Bigfoot.” Nathan points at his own feet. Like an idiot.

“Of course.”

They stand awkwardly at the edge of the pit trap the mothman, attracted by Nathan’s embarrassed calls for help, had pulled him out of with more strength than his wiry frame suggests, until the mothman says, “Would you like some coffee? I have. Instant.”

Nathan has to dangle from the mothman’s ankles the whole flight back to his roost, but the coffee isn’t half bad.

DIZZY

“Hold on tight,” he says, and his niece fists tiny hands in his shirt; his right arm wraps around her back and holds her snugly against his chest. He extends his wing with a flourish, bowing to anyone looking. None of his five brothers are paying attention, too busy assembling food or minding the other children, but his sister always watches when he flies.

His niece shrieks when he jumps off the roof, his wing bearing just enough weight to spin them like a maple seed as they drop, and topples over giggling when he sets her on her feet.

CORAL

The reefs near this cove were well-documented, but she was on deck anyway, surveying the colonies they passed. Unexpected finds could happen during even routine expeditions. There, for instance. Was that a rare type of Parazoanthus? 

She caught herself leaning over the rail and took a step back. “That species is only found in the _northern_ Galapagos,” she said sternly. “Keep this up and I’ll have to alert our mer escorts, and I’m sure neither of us want that.”

The low background humming and tantalizing urge to go investigate both cut out as the hidden siren lapsed into sullen silence.

SLEEP

Gregor blinks slowly, focusing with visible effort. “All set?”

“Keys, emergency contact list, super duper emergency airhorn,” Alyssa rattles off, pointing to each item in turn. Her bags are in her usual guest room. Gregor is the only one still upstairs, taking her through the final house-sitting checks as though they haven’t done this for the last five winters.

“Play music--” 

“As loud as I want, I know. Get going, you’re making _me_ tired. See you in March.” 

Gregor disappears through the door to the basement den, the steps groaning in complaint when he shifts to bear form halfway down.

CHEF

“ _Four years_ of culinary school, _wasted_. Can’t eat _shit_ anymore.”

“There’s blood pudding,” Omar tried.

“I don’t even _like_ \--” Ian broke off and Omar plugged his ears before he heard more indescribably upsetting noises through the bathroom door. Vampire conversion was messier than advertised.

“What about fusion cuisine? That’s trendy.”

“I’m not interested in selling boar’s blood panna cotta for $20 an ounce, I want to make _real_ food.”

“So make it, just. For vampires.”

“No frills,” Ian said slowly. “Like. Blood ketchup.”

“Yeah! Open a nocturnal food truck.”

“Called. The Donor Diner?”

Omar hummed diplomatically. “We’ll work on it.”

RIP

“Boyfriend sweater curse” is a misnomer. Madeline isn’t cursing Derrick when she tears apart the sweater she knit him for their six month anniversary, the sweater she laced with blessing after blessing, her murmured chants barely audible over the soft clack of the needles; the sweater Derrick had the unthinking effrontery to wear on his weekend “business trip” and drop into the laundry basket reeking of unfamiliar perfume. 

If the blessings unravel along with the sweater, and if that feels like a curse, well. It’s not her fault Derrick takes good things in his life for granted until they disappear.

DIG

“Trixie was rescued from an illegal mining operation,” Elyse says, half-shouting to be heard over the helicopter blades. She prefers giving this lecture from the dragon sanctuary AV room to rapt kindergarteners watching drone footage, but the VIP donors always want the live experience. “She was trained to dig for gemstones, so we’ve seeded her habitat with mineral deposits. It’s a great enrichment activity made possible by your generous support for--”

Trixie erupts from the ground below with sand streaming off her scales and quartz lumps clutched between her talons, her triumphant bellows drowning out the rest of the script.

BUDDY

They used the buddy system when they split up to look for Jake. Benjamin had smiled uncertainly, not sure what the joke was, when they told him to join a pair since there was an odd number of people left.

He stirred up flakes of peeling wallpaper as he walked through the winding halls of the mansion they’d been sealed into. He didn’t understand why the other pairs turned and ran when they looked at the wall beside him; his shadow wrapped around his fingers with gentle pressure, he and his buddy holding hands just like they were supposed to.

HIDE

When the proximity alarm beeps, she drops the soil samples and runs. The emergency bubble seals itself as soon as she dives inside. She’ll never complain about carrying the extra weight again; when Goliaths appear, without a bubble you’re either lucky or you’re paste. 

A violent seismic ripple bowls her over. Her stomach lurches as the ceiling rushes towards her, bowing so low she can see the stitching around the struts before it springs back. 

She crawls out on shaky legs, emerging into a new sharp-sided canyon all around her, the landscape she’d been studying crushed into a massive footprint.

MUSIC

“The child’s skill will improve,” the courtier told his Lady, his rabbit nose twitching nervously. “It’s young, but humans grow quickly. Surely, with time, it will become an acceptable gift. The Queen does so adore musicians.”

A shrill, warbling honk cut off further optimism. The Lady clapped her hands protectively over pointed ears. “You’ll return the child the instant the sun rises,” she said firmly, and the courtier bowed low in graceful defeat. 

Jason, oblivious to the court’s reception to his performance, raised his recorder to his lips and launched with gusto into his thirty-seventh repetition of Hot Cross Buns.

FLOAT

“Do you have, um.” The customer drops their voice before asking. “Webbed arm floaties?”

This is Tabitha’s third summer working at the scuba shop; whatever salacious curiosity she started with is long gone. She slides a catalog across the counter. “What kind of mer do you want to fuck? You’ll want to match their fin patterns.”

The red-faced customer points at their selections. Tabitha retrieves the (thoroughly sterilized) gear. 

“Use it however you want, but we’re not liable if you accidentally propose or whatever.”

“I’m a marine biologist,” the customer says, attempting dignity. “There won’t be anything _accidental_ about it.”

SHOES

“I don’t even need them.”

“That’s what you said last year, and by March we had to get an emergency farrier appointment.”

“ _Mom_.” Ivy shot a mortified look at the nearby Hoof Locker employee. “Keep it down.”

“It’s not embarrassing! Your cousin gets shoes every year.”

“Because he does track. Not because he has ‘soft and tender hooves,’” she said, making air quotes.

“Look, they have glittery ones!” Her mom pointed to a shoe with silica specks worked into the metal. “Aren’t these nice?”

Ivy rolled her eyes and resigned herself to trying out for the school’s centaur-only cross-country team.

OMINOUS

She’s handcuffed to the table, but that’s just the price of getting inside the building where they’re holding Lenny behind layers of DHS-funded “corporate security.” They always put the psychics in the basement, like the “celestial whispers” bullshit is literal and distance from the sky will help. Like some extra floors are enough to make the dreams stop coming.

“When the alarms go off, you’ll wish you’d never taken my brother. By then it’ll be too late.”

The agent across the table is bored. He won’t be for long. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” Cassandra says, smiling. “It’s a prophecy.”

CRAWL

The ghost magnet on the fridge migrated from the emoji section to the “let’s talk” post-it overnight, so David breaks out the ouija board while his coffee drips.

“What’s up?”

The pointer spells out: _squirrel nest crawlspace_

“Huh.” David’s heard more skittering from the attic at night, but October stirs up a lot of paranormals. He figured it was the spirit version of restless leg syndrome. “Is the noise bothering you?”

_itchy_

“Oh, bro, that sucks. I’ll call the landlord.”

_thank u_

The nest is relocated within the week, and the ghost magnet moves back to the smiley face post-it.


End file.
